Destiny's Plan

By Victoria Saccenti

An empty seat and a love that can withstand the trials of fate...

When Raquelita Muro takes the empty seat on the bus to avoid sitting beside her mother, she doesn’t expect to find the love of her life. But as the hours pass by on the journey from Texas to Florida, Raquelita knows that Matthew Buchanan is the one for her.

Except fate, the US Military, and an interfering mother stand between the young lovers and their destiny.

Exchanging letters in secret is their only hope as Matthew ships off to Vietnam and Raquelita and her family make a new life for themselves in Florida. And when tragedy strikes they will each be brought to the edge of what they can survive.

The course of true love never did run smooth, but will Matthew and Raquelita find each other again when half a world and an ocean of pain stands between them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Saccenti
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996416924

Victoria Saccenti

Award-winning and bestselling author Victoria Saccenti writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic women's fiction. Not one for heart and flower stories, she explores the edgy twists and turns of human interaction, the many facets of love, and all possible happy endings.  After thirty years of traveling the world, she’s settled in Central Florida, where she splits her busy schedule between family and her active muse at Essence Publishing. However, if she could convince her husband to sell their home, she would pack up her computer and move to Scotland, a land she adores.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Destiny’s Plan

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

PART TWO

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Epilogue

Thanks for reading!

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also from Victoria:

Destiny’s Plan

The Destiny’s Series

Victoria Saccenti

Destiny’s Plan

Copyright 2015 Victoria Saccenti

Print Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9964169-0-0

Editor: Linda Ingmanson

Cover design: Scott Carpenter

Formatting: Anessa Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the men and women in the Armed Forces who unselfishly serve our nation and protect us every day, particularly, the forgotten, those who fought in the Vietnam War. Your sacrifice and bravery will live forever.

Prologue

On a moonless summer night, a Greyhound bus rushes along a lonely stretch of road, its headlights penetrating the blackness. In the thoughts of Men, a bus is an innocuous conveyance, transporting all sorts of strangers. But, in that single moment, all are joined in an unspoken united purpose: to reach their destination. The simple act of moving from point to point is taken for granted. It is on these rare, unintended occasions when paths cross, lives intersect, and the Fates intervene. Directions, once solidly set, change. Destiny is fickle, humbling human arrogance. It spins, It weaves, and It cuts lives on a whim.

PART ONE

Chapter One

June 1st, 1967 – Houston – Greyhound Bus Station

The image of Papá waving good-bye still scorched Raquelita Muro’s mind. She tried to swallow, but it was impossible. After last night’s tears, her throat was dry and raw. Desperate to erase the painful memory, she stared around the unkempt waiting hall, her gaze hopscotching from person to person, reading the emotions of her fellow travelers: excitement, fear, exhaustion. Marité, her younger sister, was lost in her comic book. But Mamá’s irritation, intensified with every grating heel tap on the tiled floor. The wooden benches, the incessant crisscrossing of travelers, and the jarring noise of the loudspeakers did nothing to ease Mamá’s tense disposition.

The two-hour connection seemed endless, and all destinations had been announced except theirs. Not that she was eager for her bus to arrive; given the chance, she would turn back to her father in San Antonio immediately. Their farewell had been rushed and ultimately ruined by another volcanic quarrel between her parents. Papá had wanted to take them to the station, but Mamá refused, arguing it was best to say good-bye at the horse farm. They’d still be arguing if the ranch workers hadn’t stopped to listen in.

Raquelita, I’m so sick of the pathetic face. Take this, Mamá said, waving a tissue.

Raquelita took it in silence. As she dabbed her eyes, her attention returned to the activity in the room. The traveling frenzy had slowed, and the evening light filtered through the windows, splashing a curious tint on the distressed walls. Outside, tired golden rays had dimmed into hues of rose and light fuchsia, foreshadowing what waited ahead: a dark, lonely road. As if on cue, a green light above Gate 5 blinked. Bus 5570 was docking. Her fate had arrived.

Thirty yards from Raquelita, the transport opened its door, and a crowd of people dashed out in all directions like crazed ants. A lone soldier considered disembarking, but at the last minute opted to stay, enjoying the silence before the next array of whimpering children, admonishing parents, and grumpy passengers boarded. He needed peace from his memories and the mocking caption under his yearbook photo: Matthew J. Buchanan, Honor Society, Football Star, Most Likely to Succeed.

He should have enrolled in college to earn a student deferment. Instead, he’d allowed his youthful passions to overwhelm his judgment and delay his decision while he mooned after Kathy like a lovesick puppy. Now he was paying the price.

Any other man his age would’ve been terrified by such a cavalier throw of the dice, as thousands scrambled to dodge military service any way possible. But Matthew suffered no such fear. He was raised to believe serving his country was an honorable duty and a source of pride. When the Selective Service called, he enlisted.

And Kathy dumped him.

She’d expected a stellar life with a successful career man, a power broker, a shaker and a mover, not a rancher or a military man. In her opinion, hesitation equaled worthlessness. Matthew Buchanan was found lacking. His last recollection of Kathy Miles had been a lengthy tirade: How’d you let the scholarship offer run out, Matthew? Well, don’t think I’m gonna sit at home waitin’ for ya…

Thumps and shuffling of feet ended his brooding, and he was back in the present, staring at a man built like a linebacker, blocking the aisle. Luckily, the man spotted an empty seat away from the one beside Matthew, and with the incongruous lightness of a ballet dancer, twirled and sat down. His immensity now gone, the passage was cleared to reveal three beautiful females, a mother with her two daughters, waiting patiently.

The youngest almost made him laugh. In her short-sleeved blouse, plaid Bermuda shorts, and summer sandals, she shuffled along in happy, preadolescent innocence. A pace behind, the other young woman followed with hunched shoulders and a hesitant step. He couldn’t discern her features, but her pale yellow dress highlighted the golden color of her skin and her mahogany ponytail. The mother was a handsome woman, yet her features were distorted by a deep scowl as she scanned the length of the aisle in search of seats. Other than the empty spot next to him and one vacant row at the back, the bus was full.

When the women reached his row, the mother murmured in the oldest daughter’s ear. The young woman nodded, and for the next second or two, she barely moved. But then she took a decisive step forward, stood under the cone of his reading light, and her face emerged out of the shadows. Through a veil of dark lashes, a wondrous pair of caramel irises gleamed at him. It was a three-way punch: belly, solar plexus, and lungs. Matthew was suddenly mute.

Is the seat taken?

Her melodious words jolted him out of his stupor, and he jumped to his feet. "No, ma’am. The seat is available." In seconds, Matthew had removed his hat and duffle bag to the overhead rack.

Raquelita couldn’t help but smile at the soldier’s diligence. Apparently he wasn’t fast enough for Mamá, who grumbled with impatience.

Ah, Mamá, Raquelita huffed, jerked her shoulder and cringed, expecting Mamá’s barrage of invectives to follow. To her surprise, none came. Her mother must have been distracted, because she mumbled something and prodded Marité onward to the back of the bus.

All her life Raquelita had feared provoking Mamá’s anger. Somehow, with the exciting prospect of sitting next to this attractive stranger, she’d forgotten caution. Perhaps when she’d crossed the boundaries of the ranch, a benevolent magic had loosened some of her instilled reserve. It is possible. The real world was about adventure and discovery. She was ready to leave shyness, hesitation, and doubt behind.

The young man gestured to the seat. But she didn’t move, her attention focused on his hands. They seemed strong and capable, and she knew hands never lied. Her thoughts traveled to long-ago days when Papá’s hands guided hers during her first riding lessons. She remembered their warmth, and shape, their sense of care and affection, their quiet command and easy authority when he showed her how to hold the reins and guide the noble beast.

Take your seats!

The announcement boomed, Raquelita blinked, and the vision vanished. Feeling a little foolish, she gathered her traveling paraphernalia to her chest and settled down.

Hi there, the soldier said.

Hello, she whispered, caught by his resplendent smile.

God, he’s beautiful. The thought rose unbidden. Are men supposed to be beautiful? What did she know about such things? As she had been raised and educated strictly within the limits of the horse farm, never allowed into town or public school, her frame of reference was limited to that tiny universe. Well, Mamá had opened the door to this journey of discovery, and discover she would. Behold, here was her first subject.

Her soldier had gone silent, ostensibly involved in a thorough examination of the front seat-back pocket. It was a perfect opportunity to study the charming man surreptitiously, and yet, with his attention elsewhere, an odd emptiness descended upon her. Quick! Say anything. Her mind churned. Make him look at you.

Instead he spoke first. Is that your momma sitting behind us?

She nodded, once. First she wanted his attention; now she didn’t know what to do with it. She could blame his dazzling smile with the small dimple, the deep emerald eyes, and the straight nose with its quirky tiny bump at the bridge for taking her speech away, but it was something else, an insubstantial feeling. His gaze was warm and reassuring, almost intimate.

Darn, I’ve no manners tonight. I’m Matthew Buchanan.

I’m Raquel…Raquel Muro. My family calls me Raquelita, or Lita. The stammered response was rather weak, but he didn’t notice. He seemed intent on saying her name.

He tested, struggled, and finally rolled it. R-Raquelita?

She rewarded his effort with a good smile. It was an awkward sound for many, but in this young man’s light Texan accent, it was extremely pleasing to hear.

I like it. It suits you. Did I say it right…Raquelita? he asked with a hopeful look.

It’s perfect. I like how you say my name.

Doesn’t it mean petite Rachael in Spanish?

Why, yes. Her fingertips flew to her lips as they rounded in wonderment. You must be good with languages.

A little. He shrugged. I tried my luck with Spanish but gave it up for French. I found the guttural R easier. Okay…how did I do?

Great. The enthusiastic answer sounded strange to her. Even stranger were the bubbles bursting inside her chest. You did great.

At the back of the bus, Isabel Muro fumed. This wasn’t in the plans. How could she keep control of Lita sitting so far apart? She almost slapped the armrest in frustration. The only available seat was next to a young soldier, who, for the moment, appeared serious. Surely he would see Raquelita for the wet-behind-the-ears girl she was and disregard her entirely. However, soldier or not, his kind rarely restrained their sexual urges or salacious ideas. Men were such animals.

Her thoughts flew to her so-called ex-husband. Emilio the fool. This sham American divorce he’d forced upon her was a travesty, and illegal in their homeland. He could never return to Jerez if he remarried. He’d be declared a bigamist and shame the illustrious Muros. They were irrevocably tied. Spain and the church did not grant divorces. Until death do us part…

In retaliation, she’d absconded with their two beauties. From now on, Lita and Marité would remain under her strict supervision. She’d do everything to keep them pristine, unsullied by men’s desires, and far, far away from their father’s influence and reach. Revenge was a dish best served ice-cold.

Matthew glanced out the window and smiled. Night had fallen upon them. He’d lost track of time and forgotten his troubled thoughts thanks to the young woman sitting next to him. Her mirth and exuberance were infectious. She used her hands to speak, creating curious shapes in the air, which he visualized with total enchantment. While the minutes and hours passed imperceptibly, they had covered all sorts of topics, from the weather on the road to his assignment at Fort Benning’s Airborne School. Even the odd color of the lady’s wig two rows ahead didn’t escape their happy commentary. Raquelita was a delicious combination of naïveté and awareness and was delightfully engaged in every word he said. This genuine attention was much needed sustenance for his soul.

Let’s forget about everyone on the bus, he said. Tell me more about you. Where were you born?

San Antonio. My parents are from Spain, born on the outskirts of Jerez de la Frontera.

The land of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, he said. A legendary country full of history and romance. I’ve seen pictures and read a ton of books. I hope to visit one day.

"Gracious, you’ve heard of El Ingenioso?"

"You bet. Don Quixote was a reading elective in school. Darned difficult, but I managed. Matthew paused for a moment. Jerez isn’t close to La Mancha, is it?"

Not at all. Jerez is near the coast in the province of Andalucía, south and west of La Mancha, she explained, adopting a cute tutorial attitude. The region is known for its music, historical monuments, its prized sherry wine, and majestic horses.

Mysterious Andalucía. The Moors fought so hard to hold it. His eyebrows gathered as he spoke. "Lorca was from Granada. His poetry was musical and raw in one breath, like The Sleepwalking Ballad, or La Guitarra. It’s a pity he died so young."

Yes, a tragic casualty of the Spanish Civil War. Speaking to Matthew was like sifting through a treasure chest full of surprises, one more enticing than the last. She had the oddest desire to touch him, ensure he was real. "So you know La Guitarra?"

Oh no. I’m not going to embarrass myself by reciting Spanish. A faint flush rose on his face. It’s bad enough I mix up my locations.

My father and I used to recite it together. In her softest voice, she spoke:

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Es inútil callarla

Es imposible callarla.

Words flowed out of her lips, her fingertips flitted like butterflies, and notes filled Matthew’s ears, full, vibrant, and warm. "You have it, el duende comes to you," he said.

Me? No.

"Yes. You. I know Lorca’s poems, but I’ve never heard them in Spanish. The genie glimmers on your face and moves through your hands. The music comes to you. He comes to you."

How do you know so much? Very few people outside Spain know about the genie, much less feel or hear it.

"The teacher who helped me survive Don Quixote knew my admiration for Lorca’s works and lent me several books. One had a lecture Lorca gave in Buenos Aires. It was outstanding. The images Lorca presented inspired the reader’s imagination. He spoke of dark sounds. According to him, el duende is the hidden spirit of a doleful Spain. Please, please say more."

Raquelita smiled and continued:

Useless to silence it

Impossible to silence it.

That was lovely, he whispered. "You are enchanting."

Oh. She blushed.

Lita. The stern sound sliced the air. Isabel and her deep scowl stood next to their seats. Her gaze shifted suspiciously from her daughter to Matthew. "Is everything all right, Lita?"

Y-yes, everything’s fine. Mamá…this is Matthew. We’ve been talking for a while. I’ve told him a little about us and our family.

"Lita. Do not pester people with your little stories and inane fancies. Travelers like privacy. Uh…nice to meet you…Matthew, is it? I hope Lita doesn’t annoy you too much." Isabel arched an eyebrow at Raquelita, and before Matthew could speak, she pivoted and headed to her seat.

Matthew watched the angry woman go. Why would a mother humiliate her daughter in public? If her purpose was to smother her daughter’s spirit, she’d managed to do so. He’d spent the past few hundred miles relishing Lita’s joie de vivre; he didn’t wish to sit through the next hundred without it. He blurted the first thing that came to his mind. Lita, you can say anything you want. I love your voice.

You do?

Yes, and I love our conversations. Heck, I can’t remember the last time I discussed music, geography, and poetry in a single exchange.

If I bore you, will you tell me? Her expression was serene, but her earlier mirth had disappeared.

Impossible. You could never bore me, he murmured, hoping his sweet girl would return. How far are you traveling? Where’s your last stop? Matthew continued, but seconds after he asked, he knew the subject was trouble.

We…we are going to Ocala.

Ocala?

Yes.

Are you meeting your father there? Her grimace deepened, and he wanted to kick himself. Raquelita, if you don’t wish to talk…

Please, don’t think… I really like talking to you… He’s not coming. My parents are divorced. We’re moving to another state. She choked out the three statements, and turned to the aisle.

He murmured reassurances to no avail. She still looked away. He placed two fingers under her trembling chin, and she did not resist when he turned her face toward his. Her cheeks were damp, her irises sparkled like gems, and her lashes were heavy with moisture. She looked at him with undiluted trust and an emotion he couldn’t identify.

This guileless young woman with her soulful eyes, shimmering brown locks, and golden skin had captured him. The pull was inescapable. Matthew slipped his hand under hers. I would give half my soul to take your pain away. He lifted the delicate fingertips for a feathery kiss.

Raquelita stared in fascination. The strong hands she’d admired earlier had grasped her hand as if she were a fragile porcelain doll. She felt safe. She felt protected. She felt secure. Other than for rare moments with her father, Lita lived in a cold, affectionless wasteland, under the strict rule and discipline of a rigid mother. With a simple brush of his lips, Matthew had infused her soul with life-giving warmth. She knew then, to the marrow in her bones, she was bound to him. She would never feel this close to anyone in life again.

Talk to me, Lita. I’m on your side.

Their gazes locked.

I believe you, Matthew.

Hovering above, the ancient women watched.

Chapter Two

San Antonio – June 1st, 1967

At this late hour, the tack room was deserted. No ranch hands lingered with last-minute chores. Not even Xavi—always the last to leave—was around. Emilio scoffed. Xavi had likely fled to one of his mysterious hangouts to avoid Emilio’s wrath. Yes, Emilio was ticked off at his friend, but he was furious with himself. Xavi’s sin was to drive Isabel and the girls to the bus station. Emilio’s sin was far greater: he’d permitted Isabel to take his precious girls away without a single remonstration. He looked at his numb hands. In his fury, he’d gripped the bridles so tightly his fingers were almost white.

Taking heavy steps, he approached the dark paneled wall where multiple rows of riding accessories were arranged in orderly fashion. Thomas Ferguson, the owner of the ranch, was fastidious with his equipment. Emilio forced his stiff fingers open and hung the two bridles on their hooks. With the same restrained pace, he turned to the center of the room. Side by side on their respective stands were two saddles—Xavi’s and his—a study in contrasts.

His was hand-tooled Peruvian leather, exquisitely embossed. He touched the intricate work, appreciating the artistry of the maker. Indeed, it was a showpiece, but for all its beauty, the saddle was stiff and uncomfortable. Emilio rarely used it. In juxtaposition, Xavi’s saddle was highly functional, with its low profile and elegant, simple lines. It was the perfect trainer’s instrument. The smooth leather, supple from constant use, had molded to Xavi’s form in some areas. His friend conditioned and buffed it with loving care, and would likely maim anyone who touched it. Had Emilio missed the symbolism?

Actually, he’d missed all of it. His hand tightened on the cantle as his forehead fell upon his knuckles. What a terrible mess they had made…

In January 1928, Emilio Muro arrived in the world feet first, a sure sign of good fortune. Indeed, he was fortunate. The Muros were famous throughout the region of Jerez de la Frontera for horse training and breeding excellence, and young Emilio inherited every last gene. No colt or filly could resist him. Without resorting to harsh roping or standard breaking methods, he turned the young horses to butter in his kind hands. The venerable, and highly spirited Pure Spanish Horse was his specialty. To his family’s consternation, job offers from competing breeding farms arrived daily, which Emilio good-naturedly refused. The blessings didn’t stop there. Emilio inherited the Muro charm and bearing: Vandal, Visigoth, and Moor ancestry endowed him with splendid looks. The townsfolk—most especially the ladies—flocked to him.

In contrast, Emilio’s childhood friend and training partner, Xavier Manel Repulles, had been accosted by innuendo and suspicion from boyhood. Not even his fair, angelic features could endear him to the town’s biddies. Xavi’s northern origins, his taciturn and irreverent personality, deemed him the neighborhood’s niño terrible.

Xavi’s fortunes growing up should have been similar to Emilio’s. Repulles was a respected name within the legal profession in Barcelona. But the political climate had grown unstable. Cataláns were demanding independence from Spain. From the hallowed halls of the Generalitat to the average citizens, dissatisfaction and dissension raged like a wildfire.

Xavi’s father, the brilliant young attorney Jordi Repulles, subscribed to such ideals. Despite his family’s reputation, his career was abruptly truncated when authorities learned of his separatist efforts. Threats to desist ensued. Already, the more outspoken partisans had been detained, and some vanished without a trace. At the behest of close friends and the pleas of his elderly parents, Jordi and his wife packed their belongings and their young son and left their lives and beloved Catalunya behind.

They moved to Jerez, a distance of five hundred miles. The couple’s savings were enough to purchase a modest wine-and-tapas bar in the new neighborhood. The business thrived, but it didn’t satisfy Jordi’s soul, which pined and languished in silence for his now forbidden profession, his old lifestyle, and his ancestral home. A dark shadow fell upon the Repulles’s home.

This shadow accompanied Xavi daily to school. It would disappear in the company of his buddy Emilio, yet resurface with the end of school. It trailed him all the way home. It gave Emilio the willies to watch the hovering black cloud over his friend, knowing something ugly was going on at home.

One auspicious afternoon, whether it was from a desire to lighten Xavi’s mood or simply extend their playtime, Emilio dragged his friend to the family stables. In the midst of their games, shrewd trainers observed that the boys shared more than a close friendship: they could both speak to the horses. On the spot, Xavi was offered an apprenticeship, and from then on, the boys were inseparable.

Until Isabel Llorenz appeared, and Emilio fell in love with her.

Isabel was the most breathtaking creature Emilio had ever seen. From a distance, she was beautiful. When she came close, he was lost. A mysterious light danced in her almond-shaped eyes, a shade of caramelized sugar promising a delicious dessert. She was lovely, with lustrous dark brown curls and a tempting figure. Despite Emilio’s charming advances, however, she remained distant and aloof.

You are wasting your time, Xavi said. Isabel is not for you. She’s cold and remote. Isabel needs two things: either the touch of the switch, or to be left alone entirely. I’d say the latter. I wouldn’t tolerate such behavior. You’d do better looking elsewhere.

Pretending shocked amusement, Emilio rebuffed Xavi’s suggestion. "That isn’t my style. I prefer a gentler approach. Besides, I have the talent. Isabel will eventually respond. You’ll see. ¡Dios! Look at her. I’m bewitched."

Xavi would shrug in response. He obviously had different ideas. When it came to the ladies, Xavi was an enigma. Whatever his tastes, he was not one to tell. Whatever his preferences, not even Emilio knew.

Weeks later, Xavi arrived at Emilio’s doorstep, surprising him with the offer of a new venture. A large horse farm in Texas was seeking experts to train and breed Spanish and other purebred horses. The opportunity was better than anything they would have in Spain, and it paid in dollars, not pesetas. After involved negotiations, both men accepted job offers. Emilio stipulated one condition: he would stay behind in a last attempt to gain Isabel’s hand in marriage. With the urgency of the impending move, he pressed his pursuit of Isabel by recruiting the assistance of her mother.

Doña Alicia Llorenz, La Viuda, was no fool. She had a good eye for economic position and wealth. When Emilio presented the full monetary scope of his venture, her sharp mind evaluated her daughter’s future and, by default, her own. She knew an advantageous match when she saw it. In a flurry of activity, unceremoniously and completely unprepared for the intimacies of marriage, Isabel was wedded, packaged, and shipped onward by her shrewd mother.

Meanwhile, Isabel was fearful, which made their wedding, and especially the wedding night, a disaster. Inexperience, enthusiasm, and a measure of masculine impatience conspired against the couple. In Emilio’s loving hands, Isabel reacted to his initial caresses with pleasure. She struggled, had almost vanquished her conflicting shame, when he whispered a passionate request. Touch me, Isabel. Touch me now, woman. And disaster struck.

He reached for her hand and pressed it against him. It should have felt right. It did not. Isabel tumbled down the dark alley of hidden memories. Shocked by the distastefully familiar gesture, she heard another horrid voice and felt that other cruel hold. Her fragile arousal dissipated instantly.

Emilio missed the sudden change and the signs of her distress. Instead of guiding his wife sensuously through the light pain experienced at first possession, his passion urged him onward, and he rushed her. Hours later, a brew of ugly emotions boiled within Isabel. Shame mingled with self-disgust in a strangling poisonous knot around her soul.

Unaware of his wife’s tribulations, Emilio was delighted. The elusive Isabel Llorenz was finally his. Their wedding night belonged in fairy tales. Their joining was blissful, man and woman united as one soul, one heart. It was days later before he noticed Isabel was quiet and reserved. With his usual lighthearted attitude, he blamed it on the initial jitters of married life.

By the time the couple arrived in Texas, Emilio felt the emotional distance. He might have been able to reverse the disunion, but Isabel was pregnant, and her symptoms were so onerous they widened the chasm between them. On the happy day when Emilio received his daughter into the world, he saw no love for him in his wife’s eyes.

The years passed, the family stumbled along, and the horse farm prospered. On the evening of a big sale, the men decided to go into town to celebrate. Emilio begged Isabel to join them, but she turned down the invitation. Her refusal was their undoing.

Rejection is lousy company, and Emilio’s mood was as dark as the bar. At the Black Brew, he tried to vent to Xavi the sorry state of his marriage, but his friend’s focus was on distant thoughts. Left alone to wallow, Emilio caught the admiring glances of the bar owner, Julianna, and on this disappointing night, his bruised ego lapped it up.

Roused by the lady’s interest and uninhibited by the booze, Emilio determined he wouldn’t be denied by his wife. Not on this night. He missed Isabel. He loved and desired her, and his alcohol-addled mind was confident he could seduce her. She was his wife and the mother of his child. When he returned home, he would have her.

The following morning, Emilio was appalled. He’d forced himself on Isabel. Her glaring resentment shamed him without mercy. Defeated and weary, Emilio accepted the disaster they’d become. He left the marriage bed, never to return.

Nine months later, the arrival of María Teresa caused the estranged couple to strike an unspoken truce as they navigated through diaper changes and feedings. But their animosity couldn’t be repressed, and soon disagreements spread to all topics. The fights raged on. In their self-absorption, the combative parties failed to notice the effect on the silent witness. Five-year-old Raquelita watched and kept it all in.

Experience is an excellent instructor. If years ago Emilio had missed the signs of change in Isabel, this time he recognized his child’s distress. He embarked on a campaign to deflect the damage, lavishing his daughter with love and affection. Except Isabel’s tenacity to oppose him was stronger. Her intimidating scowl and her tireless censuring of Raquelita neutralized and defeated his efforts. Emilio watched impotently as his vivacious girl turned silent and docile. She brought less attention to herself and no longer sought his affection. She became the lost child, and her journals were her sole refuge. She retreated into a tiny private world, hiding all emotions and curiosities, and constantly criticized notions.

To his relief, as Marité grew up, the sisters became each other’s companions. He knew they understood and shared each other’s needs and heartaches. What he could no longer give them, they supplied to each other: nurturing, sympathy, and friendship. Through the ensuing years, life at the Muro household continued on its established unhappy pattern, until Sunday, February 9th, 1964. On that night, the world’s popular music and Emilio’s life changed forever.

Everyone’s at home watching The Beatles on TV, Emilio said after a quick scan of the unusually empty bar. He tried to sound casual, but Xavi must have perceived his anger. The question in his stare couldn’t be ignored for long.

The way Isabel treats the girls it’s infuriating, he explained, shuttling his beer from hand to hand. She won’t even let them watch the boys on TV. She called them ‘long-haired degenerates.’ Can you believe that? Emilio wiped the sweating bottle. A few drops fell on the countertop, making a wet spot. He spread it around absently with his forefinger.

Isabel’s a difficult woman to manage. You know this, Emilio.

I never thought it would come to this. She once responded to gentleness, I think. Damn, I can’t remember anymore. I’ve tried and failed repeatedly.

You didn’t fail, Emilio. You never spoke a language she understood. I told you what to do once. Did you listen?

What could I do? I can’t kill her.

Certainly not. But she needs a handler. One who can heal the hidden pain and tame that nasty biting habit.

"Tame her? She’s not a mare. Dios santo, I hate what she’s doing to Raquelita."

"I see the pain. She behaves like an abused mare. I can control her. And I don’t like the way she treats my goddaughter either."

"What is that supposed to mean? You can control her?"

Okay, guys. These are on me. Armed with two frosted mugs and a wide smile, Julianna Black halted the discussion with her version of peace negotiations. Let’s cool the spirits a bit.

I’m sorry, Julie. Were we getting loud?

Nah, I could use the company. It’s a ghost town in here tonight. Not a big disagreement, I hope?

I just…needed to vent. Emilio offered an apologetic smile.

Oh, what about? In addition to libations, I offer mediation services. It’s well known bartenders have the most sympathetic and impartial ears in the world. It’s a requirement.

Emilio stared at the warm bottle in his hand. Noiselessly, he propped it against the counter. Xavi shifted and rolled his shoulders in obvious discomfort. Suddenly, he blurted, It’s his wife, she…

Stop. I don’t want to talk about her anymore.

Julianna nodded. I may not be the most experienced person to offer advice, but I can sympathize with the difficulties of relationships. Robert and I weren’t married long, but we had our share of arguments. As she spoke, she replaced the bottle Emilio held with the icy glass.

Torn between his innate sense of privacy and a burgeoning desire to talk, Emilio stammered, We…we aren’t important. I’m worried about the girls and our continuous disagreements. I can handle anything, but they’re young and full of life. They need…they need… He paused. I don’t wish to burden you or anyone else with my problems, Julie. Somehow, we’ll work this out.

Xavi snickered. Oh yes. He’s been saying this for years now. But it’s an impossible task, as Isabel is difficult. Emilio has an easy, persuasive hand. It’s not what Isabel needs.

Xavi, please, don’t start again.

I don’t have children, Julianna intervened. It doesn’t mean I can’t offer a woman’s perspective. It’s scary out there. Our country is in a state of flux. We’ve been shocked by Kennedy’s assassination, the war in Vietnam is escalating, and the hippie movement is on the rise. The easygoing fifties are over. In defense of Isabel, I’d say she’s worried about the future and uncertain how best to raise the girls.

Emilio stared at Julianna. Her tone was gentle, yet she spoke assuredly. She was aware and informed about the political and societal changes in the country. The knowledge freed her to be compassionate and nonjudgmental, offering another woman, perhaps a worried and frightened mother, a generous lifeline of empathy and understanding.

To Emilio—a man exhausted with the constant struggle at home, drained by the fighting, starved for affection, desperate for even the smallest of intimacies between a man and a woman—Julianna’s easy assessment was a revelation. Her words and perspective fell around him gently, a soothing salve he wanted to spread over every aching inch of him.

To his amazement, she wasn’t trying to change his mind about Isabel’s obstinacy. Instead, she argued in her defense, presenting facts, prompting understanding, and offering compassion. This was exactly what he’d always wanted and needed from Isabel, an exchange of ideas and thoughts, a dialogue without a battle. Physical intimacy was the ultimate gift, yet what he needed to survive was a simple conversation. This easy communion of minds was an epiphany.

In Spain, he’d flirted, danced, and played around with the ladies, in happy ignorance of the fundamental needs of his soul. When he first saw Isabel, he gave physical beauty precedence and failed to observe the spirit. In penance, Emilio had lived a lonely life.

And now, wise Julianna Black beckoned him out of the emotional desert. Isabel no longer filled his mind and heart. Lord, he did not love her anymore, and the knowledge ripped painfully at his heart. But was he grieving the broken marriage or the lost prize? Maldición, he’d doggedly pursued a woman who never wanted him. Emilio stared at Xavi, realizing his friend had known all along. Earlier tonight, he’d stumbled along a dark road, but a distant beacon flashed ahead, guided by Julianna’s unexpected kind hand.

A wave of fresh anger filled Emilio’s belly. The past disappeared, and he was back in 1967, staring at the paneled walls of the tack room. Isabel’s coup had been brilliant; by the time he learned she was taking his daughters, he was unprepared to stop her legally. The element of surprise had been on her side. Not anymore. If she thought he wouldn’t fight for his girls, she was wrong.

Isabel misjudged his passivity in court for weakness. It was guilt. Insidious and implacable guilt for loving another crushed the fight out of him. He knew the courts favored the mother in custody matters, especially when the man was living in dubious circumstances, as her rapacious attorney threatened to use against him. Fury surfaced hot and steamy again, and he slapped the saddle hard. What did anyone know about his life with the kindest and most loving woman he’d ever known? Nothing.

His ex-wife was in for a huge surprise. Tonight he’d propose to Julie once more. As soon as they were married, he was going to appeal and modify the custody decree, one way or another.

The unexpected lights in the room crushed Xavi’s reverie. He squinted, pissed off with the interruption, and stared at the almost forgotten beer bottle in his hand. It was a miracle it hadn’t slid out and made a mess on the table, or worse, on his pants, adding embarrassment to an already outlandish day. The illumination came from a small stage on the far wall where a couple had started a scene. Xavi shook his head. Exhibitionism was not his bag.

Now that the club’s darkness had disappeared, so had his privacy. And sure enough, a cute blond dressed